The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘I know exactly what you mean there,’ agreed Norton.

  ‘I chalked up about $5,000 worth of fines last year. I just laugh at the pricks and tell ’em to give me another one. I’ve got about $1,500 so far this year — which I’m cutting out now. There’s no way I can afford to pay them anyway. Besides, most of the pinches are just rorts to get money out of you so they can pay the wages for all the bludging public servants in this state.’

  ‘You’re not far out there neither,’ agreed Norton again.

  ‘So I just come in here, cut out my warrants, save my money and get a bit of peace and quiet and good tucker at the same time. And that’s my story, Les. This is the best rort ever if you ask me. I’m laughing.’

  Norton stared at Max for a few moments, chuckling as he shook his head almost in admiration. ‘Yeah Max,’ he conceded, ‘I guess with your home life this wouldn’t be half bad to you. The only thing you’d miss in here is a bit of sex I suppose. But from the description you gave me of your wife, I imagine you’re not worrying too much about that either.’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry about sex. I get the best blow jobs I’ve ever had in my life in here.’

  ‘Blow jobs? In here. Where?’

  ‘Off the drag queens. They’ve got their own section where they can wear women’s clothes and do their hair up and all that. One of the screws is a relation of mine. I give him the dough and he brings me in bottles of perfume and makeup and that, and I swap it with the drags for a polish.’

  Norton was dumbfounded. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No way Jose,’ replied Max enthusiastically. ‘I get blow jobs down there that almost stop your heart beating. Your legs go to jelly and your head spins around like a chocolate wheel. I’ve been having two or three a day, too,’ Max added with a sly chuckle.

  ‘So that’s where you get to of a day is it?’

  Max winked. ‘Why do you think I sleep so well of a night? It’s not just these bloody earplugs, I can tell you.’ Norton unfolded his arms and shook his head at Max’s last statement. ‘Well Max,’ he laughed, as he settled back on the bed, ‘I reckon that might just about do me. I don’t think I need to know anymore so I’m going to shut my eyes.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. It’s way past my bedtime.’ Max reached over and turned off the radio. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Yeah. See you then.’

  There was silence between them for a few moments, then Norton propped himself up on one elbow and stared over at the wily truck driver.

  ‘Hey Max,’ he said. ‘Before we go to sleep. Just tell me one thing.’

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘If your missus is such a beast and your kids are so horrible. Why don’t you get a divorce and piss off?’

  Max opened one eye. ‘Are you kidding, Les? Move out of my grouse big home at Regents Park and leave it to those useless, loafin’ bastards. While I go and live in a stinkin’ one-bedroom unit somewhere. Not a chance.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ nodded Norton. ‘It was just a thought, Max. That’s all.’

  Norton settled back down on his bed, pulled his blanket up and got ready to go to sleep when Max spoke again.

  ‘But I’ll tell you what I am gonna do,’ he said, a noticeable coolness creeping into his voice. ‘And I’ll tell you this because I reckon you’re the sort of bloke who’d keep it to himself.’

  ‘Go on Max.’

  ‘About a year or so from now, you’ll be reading the name Max Gatenby in all the newspapers.’

  ‘Yeah. Why’s that?’

  ‘’Cause I’m gonna blow the cunts up.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I’m gonna blow ’em up. The house, their dog, the fuckin’ lot. I’ve had this planned for a while now. You see, those arseholes in my house all watch A Country Practice. They love it. I hate the show myself. Especially that doctor and the cop. Anyway, they’re all gonna be watching it one night and I’m gonna leave an overnight bag full of dynamite in the lounge room with a timer device. I’ll go down the road. Have a few schooners, a game of pool and whooshka. Up she’ll go. Chocolates, bongs, heavy-metal records. The lot.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Not a chance. But that’s only part of the plan. Just after I do it, I give myself up to a reporter on the Willesee show on TV. I’ll get maximum coverage while I make out I’m mad as a meat axe. The cops’ll come and drag me off on prime-time TV. They’ll put me in Morisset. Pleading insanity and diminished responsibility, the most I’ll get is ten years, and some social worker’ll have me out in two. Mate. Two years of rest, medication, good tucker and blow jobs every day. Be like winning the lottery.’

  Norton was even more astounded now. The tone in Max’s voice told him he was deadly serious. ‘Yeah... well,’ said Norton. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘They’ll let me out of the rathouse after two years. The house’ll be gone but I’ll still own the land. It’s worth eighty-odd grand. I flog it and buy a weekender up the North Coast — Forster or somewhere — and spend the rest of my life on the pension, fishin’ everyday. And none of those pricks to annoy me. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing — I don’t suppose Max. You’ve certainly got your head screwed on better than what I thought.’

  Max gave an evil chuckle. ‘I’m not just a pretty face Les.’

  ‘Indeed you’re not. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning mate.’

  Norton didn’t know whether to laugh or what after that. So he went to sleep instead. And he managed to surprise himself, despite the circumstances of the day, by sleeping quite well.

  It wasn’t too bad a morning when the guards unlocked the cells and mustered them for breakfast; cool but not much cloud around. After his porridge and toast and whatever, Les drifted back to the front of his cell to wait for Bernie or whoever it might be to come and let him out; which Norton figured would be around lunchtime. The TV was blaring as usual and Jimi Hendrix was once again giving ‘Hey Jude’ a punishing serve. Although it was sunny outside, Norton decided he’d wait in his cell, read some of Max’s magazines and keep a weather eye on the door at the same time. He was propped up on his bed, thumbing his way through some old People and Penthouses when a sudden movement at the door made him tense up and drop the magazine he was reading. It was the old sweeper, Mousey or whatever they called him. He stood in the doorway for a moment or two without saying anything.

  ‘G’day mate,’ said Norton eventually. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  Standing framed in the light above the door, Norton could see the sweeper had the makings of a black-eye and his bottom lip was swollen. ‘Listen pal,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in here twenty years. And I’ll be here another twenty fuckin’ years. I won’t get out of here alive.’

  The sweeper didn’t acknowledge Norton’s greeting but went straight into some sort of a preamble, almost like a well-rehearsed speech, and every word was squeezed tightly out the side of his mouth. Norton had met a lot of old blokes like the sweeper since he’d moved to Sydney. Shifty old blokes especially from around the Eastern Suburbs and Balmain. For some reason they all loved to talk out the sides of their mouths. Some seemed to be able to talk out of both sides of their mouths at once and Norton swore that one old ex-wharfie he knew from up the Cross could talk out of his ears. The sweeper continued with his side-of-the-mouth sermon.

  ‘No one’s ever done a fuckin’ thing for me since I’ve been in the puzzle, pal. I’ve been robbed, stood over. Bashed by both the screws and the other crims, and no-one’s ever given me so much as a kind word — let alone jump in and stick up for me.’

  ‘Ahh, that’s all right mate,’ shrugged Norton. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘So here. I want you to have this.’

  The sweeper handed Les an envelope. It was sealed, there was nothing written on the front or back and it appeared to contain a couple of sheets of paper inside. Norton examined it for a second or two, then looked back up at the door not quite knowing what to make of it
.

  ‘Well... thanks mate.’

  But the old sweeper had vanished even quicker than he’d appeared. Norton moved across to the door and had a good look around the wing, but he was nowhere to be found. With a shrug of his shoulders Les resumed his original position on the bed. He had another look at the mysterious envelope. He gave it a sniff. It didn’t appear to contain any drugs and a shake verified there was only a sheet of folded paper inside. Norton decided against opening it and slid it inside the yellow pamphlet he’d been given on his arrival. Well that’s a funny one. Oh well. He continued with his reading. He’d barely got another two or three pages when a loud knock on the door revealed the jowly but smiling face of Bernie Cottier.

  ‘Righto L. Norton, 6102,’ he boomed. ‘This is your big moment.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m finally getting out of this prick of a joint,’ grinned Les.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Around ten-thirty.’

  ‘Well how about that. And I wan’t expecting to get out until at least lunchtime. Looks like I got an hour and a half off for good behaviour.’

  ‘You got all your belongings?’

  Norton had already folded his blanket and towel. He slipped them under his arm and picked up the yellow pamphlet with the letter inside.

  ‘I might just keep this for a souvenir,’ he smiled.

  ‘Suit yourself. Come on.’

  They walked fairly quickly through the warrants section. Les had a last look around for Max, but he was nowhere to be seen. That figures, Norton chuckled to himself. They were through the small office near the servery and heading towards the square when Norton turned to Bernie.

  ‘Hey Bernie,’ he said. ‘That old sweeper I had the stink over. What’s he in for?’

  ‘Mousey? Old Mousey Thomas. He shot two cops in Newcastle, around 1950. He’s in for life is the Mouse.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s bladed other prisoners. He hit a guard over the head with a piece of pipe in Goulburn, nearly killing him too. He’s pretty harmless now. But he can be a bad old bastard — don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘He originally came from Melbourne. They reckon he was involved in several murders and bank jobs down there. But they could never pin them on him. They got him for the Newcastle ones though. He’s lucky he didn’t hang.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, I was just wondering — that’s all.’

  They went past the square, towards reception, when Bernie made a motion with his head. ‘Come over this way for a sec, Les. There’s something I want to show you.’

  He led Norton through another gate which opened out onto a yard with a row of high bar-fronted cells running off to their right. They were about three or four metres across and almost twice that in height. Rubbish and other articles were strewn around the front and they seemed to be dark and gloomy inside, despite the light coming through the bars. At first appearance they reminded Norton of the monkey cage in a zoo. There looked to be only one man to a cell listlessly moving about and calling out to the prisoner in the next cell over the high wall separating them. Except for a lumpy red-haired crim with a bushy red beard in the end cell. He was screaming out at the top of his voice a nonstop torrent of the most vile abuse Norton had ever heard in his life. The abuse was directed at an older guard in a freshly dry-cleaned zip-front jacket with some sort of rank or insignia sewn onto the sleeves. He was accompanied by a worried looking brown-haired man in a sports coat and glasses carrying a clipboard and biro.

  ‘What’s this?’ enquired Norton.

  ‘Protective custody, Les. This is where you would have finished up if Chopper’s boys were after you. Stay next to me and don’t get too close.’

  ‘Who are those two blokes?’ Norton nodded to the nervous looking man in the sports coat and his accompanying guard.

  ‘That’s one of the directors of the gaol — and I think the bloke with him’s from TV.’

  ‘Who are the blokes in the cells?’

  ‘Child molesters. Perverts. Kid killers. Prisoners giving evidence against other prisoners. We’ve got to keep them in there or the other crims’d kill them.’

  ‘Shit!’

  The bearded crim in the end cell was really serving it up now to the director and the TV journalist. The language would take the paint off a wall. Norton wasn’t averse to using a few four-letter words now and again, not in mixed company of course, but the bloke with the beard made Rodney Rude sound like a choirboy.

  ‘What are you fuckin’ lookin’ at cunt,’ he roared at the journalist. ‘You greasy fuckin’ big poofter. Where’s your fuckin’ gun screw,’ he bellowed at the director. ‘You got the fuckin’ thing shoved up your fuckin’ arse have you. You’ve both been sucking too many cocks that’s your trouble. You cunts. Get fucked.’

  Now and again one of the prisoners in the adjoining cells would call something out also. ‘Yeah. Come and have a look at us,’ yelled one. ‘We’re the animals.’ ‘Yeah. This is the boneyard,’ yelled another. ‘Have a good look. We’re the shit. We’re the animals. Have a look.’

  The journalist’s face was a mask of shock and disbelief, like he’d burst into a timewarp and didn’t quite know where he was. The director had more of a bemused look on his face with his hands stuck snugly in the side pockets of his fur-collared jacket. If it was at all possible, redbeard’s voice seemed to rise in a further crescendo.

  ‘You pair of fuckin’ greasy cunts You cock sucking pair of fuckin’ poofters.’ Even from where he was standing Norton could see the veins standing out on his neck and forehead. Hatred and rage dripped from every word. ‘You want something to fuckin’ look at do you. You greasy fuckin’ big poofter,’ he screamed. ‘Well have a fuckin’ good look at this.’

  Redbeard turned his back to the cell bars and pulled down his trousers. Still screaming abuse he spread the cheeks of his backside apart to reveal the dirtiest, smelliest, blotch covered bum Les had ever seen. It looked like two great lumps of white dough, covered in red wood shavings, with a big burnt donut jammed in the middle.

  ‘There,’ roared Redbeard. ‘How about sticking your tongue in there.’

  ‘Holy shit!’ exclaimed Norton. ‘What an awful looking blurter.’

  ‘How would you like it stuffed and hung over your fireplace?’ chuckled Bernie.

  Norton shook his head. ‘Come on Bernie,’ he pleaded. ‘Get me out of here. I’ve seen all I want to see.’

  ‘No, hold on a sec.’

  Despite the continuing torrent of abuse the journalist approached Redbeard’s cell to ask a reasonably polite question. Redbeard immediately spun round and spat all over him. As the shocked journalist stood there looking at the spit all over his coat, glasses and clipboard, Redbeard cupped his hand over his bum, bent slightly and strained. It was obvious he was trying to crap in his hand and fling that at the journalist as well.

  ‘Ohh bugger this,’ said Norton in disgust. ‘I’m pissin’ off — whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Seen enough have you Les?’ laughed the big guard. ‘Righto. Come on.’

  They were almost at the reception when the non-stop torrent of abuse was suddenly interrupted by a high pitched shriek. Norton slowed down but he didn’t look back.

  ‘Sounds like he got him Bernie.’

  The big guard stopped and turned towards the cells. ‘Yep,’ he nodded. ‘All down the side of his nice tweed sports coat and trousers. Not a bad shot either — considering it was through the bars and he had the sun in his eyes.’

  ‘Get me out of here Bernie. For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Well Les. What do you reckon.’ Norton had been discharged, changed back into his tracksuit and signed for the return of his watch and $20. He and Bernie were walking towards the main gate, and despite feeling dirty from not showering for almost three days, Norton still couldn’t seem to shake the smell of disenfectant from himself. ‘Did you enjoy your little stay at Malabar
Mansions?’

  Norton paused before another guard unlocked the door in the main gate. ‘I’ll put it to you this way, Bernie. I don’t feel clever or glad about coming out here. But I don’t regret it.’

  Bernie nodded solemnly. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘But after having a bit of a look around and a taste of what goes on here. There is one thing I do reckon.’

  ‘What’s that Les?’

  ‘I reckon they ought to get all those smart-arsed young kids, that are running around thieving and vandalising things and that, and bring them all out here and give them a look at how they’re gonna finish up.’

  Bernie smiled and nodded his big head in agreement.

  ‘And if that didn’t wake them up — nothing would. Because I reckon I can handle myself all right. And I’ve seen quite a few hairy things in my time. But mate. That’s a dead-set horror show in there.’

  ‘You don’t think you’ll be back, Les?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  Bernie took Norton’s hand and shook it. ‘I’ll see you up Waverley Oval on Saturday morning Les.’

  A door opened in the main gate and Norton stepped outside into freedom. Somehow even the sunshine seemed to feel different on the other side of the wall. He walked briskly past the guard on the boom gate, almost expecting to be stopped and taken back inside, but he was scarcely given a second look. There were no taxis around in Anzac Parade so Norton caught a bus to Maroubra Junction and a cab from there to Bondi. When he stepped inside his humble semi it had never looked so good.

  Norton was going to jump straight under the shower but decided he’d get a bit of exercise and have a think first, so he slipped on a pair of running shorts and drove down to Centennial Park. Running alone around the park in the bright winter sunshine seemed to add a whole new dimension to the word freedom. As he sped past the ponds full of water birds and swans his thoughts drifted back to those stony-faced men he’d seen jogging around and walking backwards and forwards across the square at Long Bay. An uneasy feeling hit him in the stomach as he thought how easily in the past he could have finished up doing a stretch out there. And possibly, if it hadn’t been for Bernie Cottier, he could still be out there now. Norton quickly shook those thoughts from his mind. The last three days he would keep to himself, except of course for Warren and George Brennan and the boys at the Kelly Club. Especially George Brennan who was forever roasting him about being tight-fisted with his money. Wouldn’t George have some ammunition to fire at him when he found out Les had spent three days in the can rather than pay a $53 traffic fine. He finished his run off with a series of stretches, push-ups and sit-ups; then went home.